


Because I Know No Other Way

by AleineSkyfire



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century
Genre: Angst, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Chronological, Pablo Neruda - Freeform, Romance, Sherbeth, offscreen fandom involvement, unashamed shipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:00:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AleineSkyfire/pseuds/AleineSkyfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.<br/>I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;<br/>so I love you because I know no other way..."<br/>Sherlock Holmes and Beth Lestrade have never had anything close to a normal relationship, but why would they need that? They don't doubt their love for each other. <br/>Collection of one-shots, inspired by a roleplay between myself and a best friend, but set in the SH22 'verse proper. Will be out of order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Love Letters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Riandra](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Riandra).



They were curled up together on the sofa, enjoying the peace and quiet. She was engaged in her favorite pastime, running her fingers through his silky hair, when a random thought occurred to her. “Hon?”

“Mm?”

She had to smile — her ministrations were already making him zone out. “Why don’t you write me love letters anymore?”

He turned The Eyebrow upon her. “I was under the impression that love letters were to cease upon matrimonial commencement.”

She tilted her head, still smiling. “They don’t _have_ to stop. I kind of miss your letters — they were surprisingly and _delightfully_ romantic.”

He snorted, though a smile lurked in his grey eyes. “I must confess that I turned back to _The Sign of the Four_ for aid,” he murmured. He lifted his hand and ran his fingers through her hair.

She tilted her head back and hummed softly in pleasure, her own hand stilling. “They were beautiful.” She turned her head and kissed his wrist. “Just like you.”

He blushed slightly, but he didn’t stop stroking her hair. “Then it appears that I must continue to write them if they gave you so much pleasure,” he breathed. He leant in and kissed her gently on the lips.

“Yes, please,” she whispered, and kissed him back.


	2. The Things He Knows

It doesn’t take him long to deduce many aspects of her life and history, but, of course, he is always learning. Just when he thinks he knows her, warts and all, she surprises him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get her limits.

In literally another life, that might have bothered him. In this life, however, he looks forward to the adventure.

He discovers, two months before their wedding, that she loves to dance. (He obliges her and discovers that he loves to dance, too.)

Her turpentine-strength coffee is legendary, but no one else knows that she keeps it up for show, and really prefers coffee that won’t peel paint off of walls. (He buys her cafe mochas often and hides it underneath the Inverness when he joins her at the Yard.)

She’s far softer and more sentimental than she ever lets on to the world. (So is he — they fit together well.)

She has scars, as does every Yarder who sees half the action she does, and each mark tells a tale of her courage. (He once had scars, but they weren’t at all noble.)

She would rather deal in abuse cases than be New Scotland Yard’s go-to detective for Moriarty matters. (He understands — he always felt the strongest about abuse cases, himself.)

She loves him. (And he’ll be happy to spend the rest of his life in returning that love.)


	3. Because I Know No Other Way

She couldn’t help brooding over the latest criticisms even as she lay curled up in her husband’s arms. People just didn’t understand. She knew that her marriage was highly controversial — not among the public at large but rather among the fandom. No woman, fictional or real, could cross Sherlock Holmes’s path without repercussions, and she’d done _far_ more than simply cross his path.

They didn’t understand that he was fully capable of being romantic, and he had simply chosen never to pursue a relationship in his previous life. They didn’t understand that, in his old age, he’d regretted that, that he’d been a lonely man.

Or — and this hurt even more — they resented the fact that she, rather than Watson, had claimed Sherlock’s heart.

He must have sensed something, because he began to stroke her hair. She tilted her head up and smiled gratefully, and his answering expression was one of concern. “What’s wrong, Beth?”

She shook her head. “Just… stuff.” She sighed. “People.”

“Fans?”

She nodded wordlessly.

He tightened his hold on her. “Oh, Beth.” He kissed her forehead and murmured, “I wish I could spare you this, love.”

She shook her head again. “I knew what I was getting into when I told you ‘yes,’ sweetheart.” _Doesn’t make it hurt any less,_ she wanted to add but didn’t. He felt things deeply, and he’d had enough pain in his life — _both_ his lifetimes. He didn’t need hers, too.

“ _Take bread away from me, if you wish,_ ” he murmured, and she couldn’t help smiling. “ _Take air away, but do not take from me your laughter_.

“ _Do not take away the rose,_

_the lance flower that you pluck,_

_the water that suddenly_

_bursts forth in joy,_

_the sudden wave_

_of silver born in you_.”

She reached up for his hand and twined her fingers with his. They had been on their honeymoon when she discovered that he enjoyed Pablo Neruda. “ _I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,_ ” she answered softly. “ _I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride_ …”

He picked it up then and they finished the poem:

_So I love you because I know no other way_

_than this: where I does not exist, nor you,_

_so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,_

_so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep._

The love in his eyes was overwhelming. In moments like this, all the pettiness of people did not exist, all the pain, all the evil… Just their love.

And she could be content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recitation of Pablo Neruda comes from my lovely co-conspirator, Ria. Here’s lookin’ at you, hon.


	4. I'm Scared for You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a prompt from writeworld on Tumblr. HURRAY FOR FINALLY TAKING ON A WRITING PROMPT AGAIN!

He’s like fire.

Funny how very few people ever realized it. Everyone always thought he was ice.

But he’s really fire.

I’ve seen him play his Stradivarius, once we tracked it down for him. I’ve watched as he throws his soul into his music, and it is… beautiful… and awe-inspiring… and humbling… It’s special. He plays with this incredible, consuming passion… and it’s wonderful.

And when he’s on a case! He is so energetic and excited, so thoroughly _alive_. He still loves what he does. He’s still passionate about what he does.

…I’ve seen him angry. Oh, he’ll still be calm, of course — he’ll be so calm that, unless you _know_ him, you might not think him angry at all. But he is. It’s there in those stormy grey eyes. It can be scary. He can be scary.

It’s like in Narnia, when they say that Aslan isn’t safe, _but he’s good_.

Sherlock Holmes is certainly _not safe_ , but he is **good**.

But…

But I’ve seen him unmistakeably furious. Rarely, but I have, and may the Lord have mercy on the soul of the offender, because _he_ will **not**. All bets are off, then. He’s going to destroy you, or he is going to die trying.

…quite obviously, he’s still here.

It scares me. What if something happens to me, or Watson, or any of the kids? What kind of terrible force of nature would that turn him into? I don’t want him to lose himself to his own fire. I couldn’t bear it if he lost himself to his own fire.

Sherlock… Sherlock, please… don’t let that happen to you. Please don’t.


	5. Dealing with the Fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue to DERA.

The first time he kissed her, it was a chaste kiss upon the forehead. There was no mistaking the affection behind it, but it was simple and kind. Comforting. She had woken up, screaming, from a nightmare during her recovery at the hospital, and he’d been there.

He slid onto her bed and pulled her to him, holding her close and stroking her back comfortingly while she sobbed. Then he kissed her forehead.

It took her breath away. She glanced up at him uncertainly: _who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?_

He smiled back, blue eyes sad, and began to hum and to rock her. Limp and exhausted, she swiftly fell asleep, feeling so safe that she did not remember her dreams afterwards.

As far as she could tell, he never left her room. She had tried to kill him — never mind how unwillingly — and still he stuck by her.

Silence weighed heavily the next morning. She drew her knees up to her chest and tried to speak, only for her voice to crack. Thoroughly self-conscious now, she cleared her throat and tried again. “You kissed me,” she murmured, coloring slightly even as she said it. “Last night.”

He had looked up from his book and was now reddening a bit, as well. “Yes. I did.”

She nodded, unsure of what to say next. Everything floating around in her head sounded inane.

After half a minute of awkward silence, he put his book aside and sighed. “Elizabeth, please be assured that I hold you and your capabilities in the very highest regard, and I would not dream of condescending to you in any way.”

She couldn’t help staring at him, not having expected that at all. Obviously, the Great Detective’s deductive skills still failed at times… “I didn’t think you were condescending,” she said softly. “I… really appreciated that. What you did for me last night. I just… you took me by surprise with your kiss.”

“And I should not have done so.” He colored further. “Conventions of this time period — or lack thereof — be hanged.”

“I liked it.”

She had said that hardly above a whisper. He heard it, however, and his eyes widened. Vulnerability throbbed between them for a moment, and she realized that it was a _moment_. It made her heart soar, and it scared her. She managed a slight smile, which elicited the briefest of smiles from him.

“Beth.” He glanced down, and she noted the long fingers rapidly drumming some sort of tune on his knee. “May I…” He looked up, the look in his eyes indecipherable. “May I kiss you properly?”

Her eyes widened. “Do you really want to?” she breathed.

For the first time, she watched as his expression became completely open, nothing held back, eyes filling with a longing that she could not believe was for her. “Yes.”

The love and the need behind that one word nearly overwhelmed her. She nodded slowly, and he approached nearly as slowly. He sank onto the bed and then appeared not to know what to do with himself. She leaned forward, and that seemed to encourage him to likewise. She lifted trembling hands tentatively to his arms and stroked them for a moment, scarcely aware of what she was doing. The sheer depth of emotion in his eyes captivated her.

He raised a hand to her cheek, and she leaned into his touch, eyelids half closing in bliss. His hand was warm and soft, pulsing with a life that was not yet four months old. Then he leaned in further, still slow, still hesitant, and touched his lips to hers.

Heart racing, she pressed her lips back to his, her hands settling on his shoulders. He drew her closer, the touch of his lips still light and soft, his gaze indescribably warm and full of love. She realized then that, somewhere in the process of getting to know her lifelong hero, her infatuation had matured into a genuine romantic love.

Emboldened by that knowledge, her kiss grew passionate. His eyes widened briefly before he, too, kissed more fervently. It was incredible. It was the most important moment of her life.

Sherlock Holmes loved her, and she loved him.

He pulled away first — for air, she thought — and smiled shakily. She returned the smile, feeling full to bursting.

“Beth…”

She lifted her hand to touch his cheek and smiled. “Sherlock.”

His gaze was affectionate in a way she’d never seen before, not even with Watson or the Irregulars. “Beth, I am well aware of the romantic customs of this era, but I must ask this. May I court you?”

She smiled widely at him — she wouldn’t have it any other way. “Yes. You may.”


End file.
